THE DYING MOTHER TO HER INFANT. To breathe thine early griefs unto, if such assail my child- I do repent me now too late, of each impatient thought, Thou'lt have thy father's eyes, my child-oh! once how kind they were ! His long black lashes, his own smile, and just such raven hair: But here's a mark-poor innocent-he'll love thee for 't the less, Like that upon thy mother's cheek his lips were wont to press. And yet, perhaps, I do him wrong-perhaps, when all's forgot I've heard that little infants converse by smile and sign Smile so upon thy heavenly friends, and commune with them now? Oh! when I think of what I was, and what I might have been- The bliss it would have been to see my daughter at my side, THE DYING MOTHER TO HER INFANT. And then to place the marriage crown upon that bright young brow; Oh no! not that 'tis full of thorns: alas! I'm wandering now: This weak, weak head! this foolish heart! they'll cheat me to the last I've been a dreamer all my life, and now that life is past. And hast thou not one look for me? those little restless eyes SONG. THE stars are with the voyager, The moon is constant to her time, But follow, follow round the world, Wherever he may be, the stars The sun may set, but constant love Will shine when he's away; So that dull night is never night, Thomas Hood. A SOFTENING thought of other years, When Life was all too bright for tears, And Hope sang, wreath'd with flowers! A memory of affections fled Of voices-heard no more! Stirred in my spirit when I read That name of fondness o'er! THE MOTHER. Oh Mother!-in that early word A watchful mother's breast! The thousand prayers at midnight pour'd, Beside our couch of woes ; The wasting weariness endured To soften our repose!— Whilst never murmur mark'd thy tongue Nor toils relax'd thy care :— How, Mother, is thy heart so strong What filial fondness e'er repaid, 'Tis only when the dust is thrown We muse upon thy kindness shown- 'Tis only when thy lips are cold, The days for ever set! And not an act-nor look-nor thought Against thy meek control, But with a sad remembrance fraught Wakes anguish in the soul! THE MOTHER. On every land-in every clime- From which her strength she draws, Still is the Mother's heart the same The Mother's lot as tried : Then, oh may Nations guard that name With filial power and pride! MARY, SINCE FIRST I KNEW THEE. Charles Swain. MARY, since first I knew thee, to this hour, Thy clear heart, fresh as e'er was forest-flower, Pure vestal of the poet's holy flame, This is enough, and we have done our part J. R. Lowell. |